He leaned forward, forearms braced on thighs, and smiled his lazy, arrogant smile. "I never get hysterical."
"Uh-huh."
The smile showed a hint of teeth. "Why, Cat?"
"Wolves can be real tattletales, did you know that?" She looked at him hopefully. When he didn't say anything, she fluffed her hair and sighed. "You see, there are times when I need to get away from everyone and just be with the land, and I used to come and camp out here for a few days, but during one of those trips it rained and I was sleeping on the wet ground and got chilled and the wolves went running off to tell Papa and he said he appreciated my need to spend some time with the land but he saw no reason why I couldn't have the option of some shelter and I said that a lean-to would probably be a reasonable idea so he had this cabin built." She paused and gave him an apprehensive smile. "Papa and I have rather different definitions of 'lean-to.''
Looking at the large stone hearth and the solid walls and ceiling, and then at the woman-child sitting in front of him with her hands pressed between her knees, Lucivar reluctantly let go of the knot of anger he'd felt for this unknown father of hers. "Frankly, Cat, I like your papa's definition better."
She scowled at him.
Black Widow and Healer she might be, but she was also almost grown, with enough of the endearing awkwardness of the young to still remind him of a kitten trying to pounce on a large, hoppy bug.
"So you don't live here all the time?" he asked carefully.
Jaenelle shook her head. "The family has several residences in Dhemlan. Most of the time I live at the family seat." She gave him a look he couldn't read. "My father is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—among other things."
A man of wealth and position then. Probably not the sort who'd want a half-breed bastard as a companion for his daughter. Well, he'd deal with that when the time came.
"Lucivar." She fixed her eyes on the open door and chewed her lip.
He sympathized with her. This was sometimes the hardest part of the healing, telling the patient honestly what could—and could not—be mended. "The wings are just decorative, aren't they?"
"No!" She took a deep breath. "The injuries were severe. All of them, not just the wings. I've done the healing, but what happens now depends, in large part, on you. I estimate it will take another three months for your back and wings to heal completely." She chewed her lip. "But, Lucivar, there's no margin for error in this. I had to pull everything you had to give for this healing. If you reinjure anything, the damage may be permanent."
He reached for her hand, caressed her fingers with his thumb. "And if I do it your way?" He watched her carefully. There were no false promises in those sapphire eyes.
"If you do it my way, three months from now we'll make the Run."
He lowered his head. Not because he didn't want her to see the tears, but because he needed a private moment to savor the hope.
When he had himself under control again, he smiled at her.
She smiled back, understanding. "Would you like a cup of tea?" When he nodded, she bounced out of the chair and went through the door to the right of the stone hearth.
"Any chance of persuading my Healer to add a bit of food to that?"
Jaenelle's head popped out of the kitchen doorway. "How does a large slice of fresh bread soaked in beef broth sound?"
About as edible as the table leg. "Do I have any choices?"
"No."
"Sounds wonderful."
She returned a few minutes later, helped him shift from the stool to a straight-backed chair that supported his back, then placed a large mug on the pine table. "It's a healing brew."
His lip curled in a silent snarl. Every healing brew he'd ever had forced down his throat had always tasted like brambles and piss, and he'd reached the opinion that Healers made them that way as a penalty for being hurt or ill.
"You don't get anything else until you drink it," Jaenelle added with a distasteful lack of sympathy.
Lucivar lifted the cup and sniffed cautiously. It smelled . . . different. He took a sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, then closed his eyes and swallowed. And wondered how she'd distilled into a healing brew the solid strength of the Askavi mountains, the trees and grasses and flowers that fleshed out the earth beneath, the rivers that flowed through the land.
"This is wonderful," he murmured.
"I'm pleased you approve."
"Really, it is," he insisted, responding to the laughter in her voice. "These things usually taste awful, and this tastes good."
Her laughter turned to puzzlement. "They're supposed to taste good, Lucivar. Otherwise, no one would want to drink them."
Not being able to argue with that, he said nothing, content to sip the brew. He was even content enough to feel a mild tolerance for the bowl of broth-soaked bread that Jaenelle placed in front of him, a tolerance that sharpened considerably when he noticed the slivers of beef sprinkled over the bread.
Then he noticed she was going to eat the same thing.
"I'm not the only one you drained to the limit in order to do this healing, am I, Cat?" he said quietly, unable to completely mask the anger underneath. How dare she risk herself this way, when there was no one to look after her?
Her cheeks colored faintly. She fiddled with her spoon, poked at the bread, and finally shrugged. "It was worth it."
He stabbed at the bread as another thought occurred to him. He'd let that wait for a moment. He tasted the bread and broth. "Not only do you make a good healing brew, you're also a decent cook."
She smacked the bread with her spoon, sending up a small geyser of broth. Wiping up the mess, she let out a hurt sniff and glared at him. "Mrs. Beale made this. I can't cook."
Lucivar took another mouthful and shrugged. "Cooking isn't that difficult." Then he looked up and wondered if a grown man had ever been beaten to death with a soup spoon.
"You can cook?" she asked ominously. Then she huffed. "Why do so many males know how to cook?"
He bit his tongue to keep from saying, "self-preservation." He ate a couple more spoonfuls of bread and broth. "I'll teach you to cook—on one condition."
"What condition?"
In the moment before he answered, he sensed a brittle fragility within her, but he could only respond as the Warlord Prince he was. "The bed's big enough for both of us," he said quietly, aware of how quickly she paled. "If you're not comfortable with that, fine. But if someone's going to sleep in front of the hearth, it's going to be me."
He saw the flash of temper, quickly reined in.
"You need the bed," she said through gritted teeth. "The healing isn't done yet."
"Since there's no one else here to look after you, I, as a Warlord Prince, have the duty and the privilege of overseeing your care." He was invoking ancient customs long ignored in Terreille, but he knew by her frustrated snarl that they still applied in Kaeleer.
"All right," she said, hiding her shaking hands in her lap. "We'll share the bed."
"And the blankets," he added.
The hostile look combined with the suppressed smile told him she wasn't sure what to think about him. That was all right. He wasn't sure, either.
"I suppose you want a pillow, too."
He smiled that lazy, arrogant smile. "Of course. And I promise not to kick you if you snore."
With her command of the Eyrien language, the girl could have made a Master of a hunting camp blush.
It hit him later, when he was comfortably settled on his belly in the bed, his wings open and gently supported, and Jaenelle and the wolves were out doing walkies—a silly word that struck him as an accurate description of the intricate, furry dance three wolves would perform around her while taking a late afternoon stroll.